An ode to the world pre 2020 and my innocence
I miss going to shows
the big concerts, tiny local bands.
I miss watching the crowds
moving in the strobe lights,
ever present scents of
cheap alcohol, sweat, and vape.
Taking a break from crowds
in the biting winter air, underdressed.
Forming strange, one night,
fleeting friendships,
declining hits of acid.
(I hadn't tripped yet)
I miss my blissful naiveté
trusting people to be good.
Being innocent and unknowing
is dangerous, to be sure,
but I still miss it.
I used to be so optimistic
when it came to people.
I miss coffee shops
with their gentle clamour,
places to make a new friend,
meet an old one,
get to know that girl
you met just last week.
Create imaginary friends
in that book you live in,
or in the scene you write,
flowing, brain to fingertips,
tickling and tingling
with excitement to see
your world come into being.
Coffee shops always have
the most comforting of aromas
let your nose lead you into
this enchanted place.
I miss the city bus,
the cross section of humanity
crowded into one small space
for a minute or an hour
until they return to their
individual habitats.
I miss eavesdropping
on the phone calls,
the conversations; breakups
and declarations of true love.
A mother returning home,
a friendship being forged,
lifelong enemies meeting,
the whole world around knows.
A man dropped his phone
I hand it back to him
he offers me weed,
and I tell him I’m staying sober.
Those sacrifices I made
for someone worthless,
will always irk me.
I miss bustling street
by the house I grew up in
take a sample of the city,
throw it together, add art,
and you’ve got the street
that captured my heart
the first time I visited an
anarchist hippie punk bakery.
It smelled of heaven,
and the reading lounge
was thought provoking
to say the very least.
Old diner tables and
slipping on ice, laughing.
Small, wide ranging shows
I was technically too young for,
make friends with venue owners.
Dancing with my little sister,
in the middle of a parade.
Carrot juice and open mics,
Three am and silence
only shattered by shots.
Painting chairs in gardens,
weirdos of different breeds
congregating on this road,
running away from the cops
with a group of people
who for no understandable reason
followed the lead I took,
after screaming from pickup trucks
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